


Westerosi Tales

by landsmanwashere (pancake_potch)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Gen, Incest, Unconventional Pairings, Violence, various characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2018-08-12 22:10:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 10,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7951039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pancake_potch/pseuds/landsmanwashere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern/Canon-era based small stories of unconventional pairings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arya/Ramsay

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Norsk available: [Westerosi Fortellinger](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10561160) by [kunnskat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kunnskat/pseuds/kunnskat)



Roose tells his son to charm the oldest Stark girl because that was a surefire way to wedge himself into the best position inside Stark Investments. Ramsay listens, bored, and halfheartedly nods in agreement.

 

Ramsay isn’t interested in the redhead. She’s beautiful in a conventional way, which he finds remarkably uninteresting. He doesn’t want the eldest girl, but knows his father is right. Truth be told, he would like to stay in his father’s good graces until some other opportunity arises.

 

So he finds himself, glass of scotch in hand, at the Starks’ holiday gala. The ballroom of their mansion is lit most elegantly and is filled with people he had known most of his life, or at least recognized by face. Although the Bolton home was large and austere in it’s own way, it didn’t compare to the grandeur of the Starks’ vast home.

 

Ramsay eyes Sansa Stark. She is a prize, he thinks. But not one he’s interested in winning.

 

“She’s just like her mother.” Ramsay turns around to find his father behind him. He lifts an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation.

 

“Delicate,” Roose says. “Graceful. Easily broken.” Ramsay knows what he means by that, but he’s tired of delicate flowers. They provide no challenge-physical or mental. Too predictable.

 

“Yes,” Ramsay begins, “but, father-“

 

“Do your duty.” Roose says cutting off any further argument. He walks away after giving a disapproving look at the alcohol Ramsay holds.

 

Rasmay swallows what remains in the glass. He decides to wander over and begin the wooing of a girl he’s not remotely interested in, when he spies a girl with dark hair and a silver dress taking swigs out of a flask, nearly hidden behind a thick curtain. He watches as she swallows and looks around.

 

He literally stops at her loveliness. The girl is thin and pale. An exquisite, tiny thing.  It’s as if someone has taken a blade and pierced his gut, dragging it upward to his heart. _Oh, she is something._

 

It isn’t until he sees Robb Stark approach her and yank away the flask, giving her some sort of talking to that Ramsay realizes that the striking girl is the youngest daughter of Eddard Stark.

 

_Arya._

The dirty, mouthy little girl he remembers vaguely from his youth has grown into a feisty, _delicious_ young woman. He watches as she rises to Robb’s face, almost growling at him, it seems. Ramsay can tell they argue before Robb grabs her wrist to yank her away.

 

He can feel his blood boiling from toe to fingertip at how she’s manhandled. A rock of fury lodges in his throat. Such a lively thing shouldn’t be touched in such a way, unless he himself is doing the touching. Ramsay watches with a steady eye as Arya is whisked away to another room. The glass in his hand nearly shatters for how hard he’s clutching it.

 

Oh, how he wants this girl.


	2. Sansa/Petyr I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based off the true story of the largest bank robbery (at the time) that occurred in Laguna Niguel, California in 1972. The estimated take was 8 million dollars.

September 1972

If the detectives had bothered to ask Mr. Tyrell about the comings and goings on in the bank, he would have said everything was perfectly normal. The usual customers, the usual transactions.

Except when a gorgeous brunette he’s never seen before asked to rent a safety deposit box. He remembered how poised and articulate she was, possessing a particular stylishness and politeness that told him that she was old money, unlike the other customers. He personally showed her the vault and went into great detail about how secure it was. She asked a few questions about the thickness of the vault door, and if there was any chance anyone could get in. He chuckled and assured the beauty that nobody could ever find a way in.

She giggled as she touched the lapels of Mr. Tyrell’s jacket and said she hoped it was as he said because there were very important things to be kept in that box.

But, they never asked and Mr. Tyrell never volunteered.

 

* * *

 

“Brune- Explosives and tools. Hollard. -A way in. Through the roof is the best option. Alayne- Watch.” Petyr looks around to gauge the response.

They nod, knowing what would happen things don’t go according to plan. Hollard and Brune grab gear as Alayne looks on helplessly.

“Is this going to work? I can’t…I’m not go to jail.”

Petyr looks around to see if either one is listening. When he sees they’re talking, he pulls the girl aside.

“Sansa. We’ve done it before. All that is different is that we have help, hm?” His hands are on her shoulders, and he knows she can do this. He knows she can pull this off.

“This,” he whispers in her ear, “has the potential to be the biggest heist ever to be pulled in a century, my love.” He pulls away and looks her in the eye and sees that cold look she gets when she wants something.

She gives him a small smile.

 

* * *

 

When the detectives canvased the neighborhood, they missed a man named Olyvar. Olyvar lived in a townhouse almost directly across the street from the bank. On that particular night, he remembered a powder blue car sitting out front, with a pretty girl at the wheel. The only reason he noticed was because he was perched at his window seat, waiting for his boyfriend to pick him up.

But, the detectives never asked him, and he never volunteered.


	3. Jon/Arya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very loosely based on SE Hinton's "The Outsiders"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've a few drinks under my belt, so any obvious mistakes are mine

_November 1954_

 

“Ouch.”

 

“Stop moving then. It’ll be easier.”

 

“Easier? With that butter knife?”

 

Arya sighed and yanked a bit harder on his hair. “You decided to come with me. We don’t have a choice.”

 

He took a chance and turned to look at her. “And leave you? Alone? Not likely.” He huffed and braced himself against the pocketknife tearing at his hair.

 

“You didn’t do anything. I did. I dunno why you thought you had to come along.” She punctuated that statement by sawing off another bit of his black curls.

 

* * *

 

 

“Alright, darling. Bread, bologna, mustard…um, a couple chocolate bars…” Jon trailed off taking stock of the box of goods he brought back to the church. Hopefully it’d be enough. He wasn’t sure how long they’d have to be gone.

 

Suddenly, there was a skinny thing elbowing him aside. “Playing cards,” she muttered, going through the box, “milk… _Milk?_ That’ll go bad quick.” She shuffled through a bit more before her hand found something hard. Pulling up a book, she stared at it. “ _Of Human Bondage_?” She stared at her brother. “I’ve already read it, and I don’t care for being reminded that I don’t belong. Much like Phillip.”

 

Jon gave her a withering look. “I thought you’d want to read? Maybe out loud. It’d pass the time, you know.”

 

“Jon. Haven’t you read this?” She continued to pull things out, shaking her head, “You _have_. Ygritte is like your Mildred, I swear.” He knew she was right. Ygritte was a cheeky girl from two towns over who he had met a year ago. A girl who enchanted him enough to let her get to second base. She hadn’t phoned or anything since that one time, but he had still been hung up on her

 

A few odds and ends later, Arya pulled out a bottle. “What’s…” she pulled the stopper out and smelled, “no. No. I’m not doing that.”

 

“Arya.”

 

“I’m not.” She shook the bottle in his face. “Do you see me as a blonde? Really?”

 

He grabbed her around her middle. “No. But, you realize we’re on the run. We’re already in the papers, I’m sure. So,” he grabbed the bottle out of her hand, “this is what we have to do,”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“It’s weird.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“No, really,” He stroked her hair as she lay on his lap, “Just read. That paperback is supposed to be all the rage. It cost twenty-five cents. Should be worth it.”

 

Arya shifts her face up to look at him, and she can’t remember a time when she didn’t love him.

 

“I’ve never heard of this.”

 

Jon looks down at her.   He wants to do so much more, but he restrains himself. Banging the back of his head against a pew he demands a story.

 

Arya shifts a bit before reading. _“_ _If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.”_


	4. Sansa/Davos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Davos at Winterfell post s6.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's always wondered why no one has ever thought of Sansa/Davos since I've literally seen Sansa paired with everyone else.

She stood in the great hall, watching as the tables were taken away. It was odd to think that she had stood in the place her mother once did, overseeing the cleanup of a feast.

 

“Lady Sansa.” Davos Seaworth approached her, hands held behind his back. He wasn’t quite sure what her title was currently. Lady Stark? Lady Bolton?

 

She turned and smiled. “Ser Davos. I hope you find Winterfell accommodating.”

 

“Oh,” he turned to the last few servants whisking away chairs, “of course, my lady.” They stood side by side as the last servants left. He looked sideways at her. She was tall and beautiful, graceful as well. Her rigid posture typical of a lady of her standing, yet she looked forlorn-perhaps there was a wariness she was hiding.

 

“It must be quite an honor. Having your brother proclaimed king.”

 

“It isn’t the first time,” she said quietly. She thought of when she had first had gotten word of Robb’s claim. Sansa was so excited and frightened for him, but he was brave and strong, much like their lord father. _Brave and strong and almost certainly on his way to rescue her from Kings Landing._

 

“My pardons.” He lowered his head a bit, “I’d forgotten…” He remembered then-her brother’s fate _and_ her mother’s. He’d heard rumor of the Red Wedding, as everyone throughout the seven kingdoms did. _Poor girl, not yet six and ten and the world has burdened her far beyond her years._

 

“No need, Ser Davos. A lot has happened since then.”

 

He looked directly at her, but she wouldn’t meet his eye. There really was something brewing beneath her exterior that he couldn’t fairly pin down. “Tonight was a spectacle, no doubt. To be sure I don’t know the ways of the North, but I do know when to give credit where it is due.”

 

Sansa looked at him then, as if surprised to hear such a thing. “If it weren’t for you, my lady- and Lord Baelish, we’d be dead.” His hands fell to his sides and he wanted to ensure she heard him. “You brought the Vale into the fold, and for that I thank you. My Marya thanks you.”

 

“Marya? Your wife?”

 

“Aye. My two remaining sons reside on Cape Wrath with her.” For once, it didn’t pain him to think or speak of them. He couldn’t conjure up her face, nor those of his sons, but they were still there, steadfast in his heart.

 

Sansa smiled then. “You will have to tell me more of them soon. But for now, thoughts of a cup of wine and my bed call to me. Will you escort me to my chambers? I know no harm will come to me, but still…I fear for my safety.” She gave him a demure look, as though she was shy to ask him for his escort.

 

“Of course. I think attending a lady to her chamber is perhaps the most pleasurable thing I’ve done during this whole bloody war.” Davos gave her an easy smile and his arm.

 

They walked through the silent halls together. Sansa’a step mirrored his own. She knew he’d backed Jon during the fight, for which she was grateful, but now? He was a valuable pawn able to speak wisdom into the ears of those needed to place herself onto the proper spot onto the dais in which she was entitled.

 

“Why did you claim for my brother?” An innocent question. Her finger curled around his arm gently.

 

Davos cleared his throat. “I saw him rise from the dead. I knew of his courage and fairness. Traits desirable in a ruler…well I suppose coming back to life isn’t really necessary.”

 

Sansa gave a light laugh as they approached the door. “Would it be an impropriety if I asked you to join me for a chalice of wine? It’s what remains of the Dornish red.”

 

Davos pulled his arm away from her grip and took a step back. “I don’t know if that’s appropriate, seeing as how your brother is king. I’d like to keep my head balanced upon my shoulders.” He’d strayed before, many times during his voyages at sea, but no other temptation presented itself as a striking highborn lady. _This_ highborn lady, known to be one of the most beautiful in all the kingdoms.

 

She took a step closer to him, and placed her fingertips on his elbows. “Please. My brother, _His Grace_ , need know nothing about this. I was only hoping for a bit of company in my sorrow.” Sansa bit her lip and made sure his eyes met her own. “I married…I married that _monster_ because I was promised a crown. And now…I wear these scars instead.” She flushed and turned away from him, opening the door. “Forgive me, Ser Davos. I did not intend to be so forward.”

 

As she stepped through and pushed the door closed, he couldn’t help but stop it with his stubby hand. “My lady, if you request my presence, I’ll…I’ll gladly accept your invitation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going off of show canon, I think Sansa could charm her way into Davos' heart in order to take her position as Queen of the North.


	5. jojen/arya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jojen and arya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was a freshman in highschool in the 1990s. And this is almost 100% autobiographical (except I'm not a Stark)

October 1995

She sits, cigarette dangling from her hand as she watches her classmates running laps. The P.E. teacher dismissed her since she wasn’t wearing the proper shorts. She tried to argue, saying that polyester golf pants cut into shorts were still shorts, but apparently it wasn’t up to standard. 

Since she didn’t want to be counted as cutting, she’s on the highest level of bleachers, watching as the suckers below her run in circles. She pulls at the loose threads of her shoelaces as she takes another drag. She mentally curses the teachers and her classmates because she had done what they said. Wear shorts. They didn’t specify what kind. It’s a stupid rule, anyway.

There’s a chill that only early October brings and she pulls the army jacket tighter around her. She probably wouldn’t be cold if she were running like she was supposed to, but that isn’t the point.

Arya sighs and takes a drag, absently tipping the ashes to her side. She hisses when she feels a sharp pain on her leg, and realizes the wind had blown part of the cherry onto her. Standing up, she brushes it off. Arya is so focused on getting the burned end of the cigarette off her pants so her mother won’t notice a burn hole that she doesn’t hear the clanging of someone’s footsteps coming up the bleachers.

“You going to get in trouble for that?” 

She darts her head up to find a boy with brown hair standing near her. Arya sits back down and narrows her eyes at him. “What?”

“The cigarette. Don’t they care?” He sits down a row below her. He doesn’t look familiar, no one she knows in her grade. She takes another puff for show. She doesn’t know him and she doesn’t really care.

“No. Obviously.” If she were to get into trouble, she certainly wouldn’t be here.

The boy just lifts his eyebrows.

She drops the cigarette and squashes it with her shoe before turning her attention completely on the runners below. Maybe he’ll take the hint and leave her alone.

She can tell he’s still looking at her when he says, “You’re Arya, right? Arya Stark?”

She’s slightly taken aback, but doesn’t want to show it. “Yeah,” she says not looking at him still, “what’s it to you?”

“I’m Jojen. Reed?” He stands and steps over one of the seats to sit next to her. “My father’s friends with yours.”  
Ah, that name does ring a bell. Her father did mention Reed now and again. She had no idea if they were still in contact, or anything. 

“Yeah. Your father is Howland? From the war?”

He sighs and shifts a little in his seat before smiling at her.

She smiles back.


	6. Arya/Ramsay II

 

 

_don’t try to fight the storm_

_you’ll tumble overboard_

_tides will bring me back to you_

_-Bring Me the Horizon- Deathbeds_

 

“Stop laughing. You’re blowing it out.”

 

Arya laughs harder and holds her cigarette tip up to the flame again. This time it lights, and she inhales.

 

“Why are you here again?”

 

He readjusts himself against the tree trunk and lights his own cigarette. “My mother died. I know you could use a drink. It’s hard, when a parent dies.” He doesn’t explain how she died and how his father was responsible. It isn’t prudent. He was only a small child anyway, and hardly remembers her.

 

Her smile drops and she really looks at him. “Your mother? Really?” Arya turns and looks off into the distance and doesn’t ask for an explanation.

 

She drags the bottle of ’55 Glenfarclas to her lips and hisses as it burns. “Where’d you get this? It’s expensive.”

 

Ramsay takes the bottle out of her hands and takes a drink. “My father doesn’t partake, but he does keep an impressive collection.” It’s true. He keeps a remarkable cellar, mainly for important guests, but knows his father won’t notice a single bottle gone.

 

Truly, Ramsay picked this particular bottle to impress her. Arya’s family was extraordinarily wealthy, and for some reason he couldn’t name the feeling he has had since he saw her, but he wants to be an important person to her.

 

The _only_ important person to her.

 

 

“So, what? You darted passed the butler and my mother to…”she shrugs, “sneak expensive booze to an underage girl?” Arya’s fingers tug the sleeves of her flannel down.

 

“No,” he said, annoyed. That wasn’t it at all. If he wanted under aged girls, he’d have his pick. He did have his pick, but he found the grown women were much more _entertaining_. More of a challenge. The bigger ones always fought harder.

 

Ramsay looks at her in the waning moonlight in the forest surrounding the Winterfell estate, and wants nothing more than to push her down into the fallen pine needles and rake his fingernails across her body.

 

Arya examines Ramsay’s countenance before grabbing the bottle from him. “Okay.” Taking another swig and a drag off her cigarette she hazily asks, “You know the Lannisters, right? Cersei Lannister? That tosspot Joffrey’s mother?”

 

He nods and watches as she shifts around, the hem of her shirt hitching up to expose a sliver of skin near her hip. It takes everything he has not to stare- or pin her down and _smell_ that skin as he drags his tongue across it.

 

Arya watches him, but not with the longing gaze of the simpering tarts he’s used to.

 

No. _She’s sizing him up_.

 

“Don’t tell anyone, but I’m sure that drunk fucking cow had something to do with…” she falters a bit and wipes her nose with the back of her sleeve, “with my father.”

 

Yes. He’s heard the rumors. “That so?” He doesn’t say more because he wants to hear it from her.

 

“It doesn’t matter _why_. I don’t give a shit. But I’ve listened and watched, you know.” Of course she has. And _he’s_ been watching _her_. When she’s not burning like fire- all words and spite and moxie, she’s ice- silent and still and almost… _deadly_ if left alone in her clutches for long.

 

She crushes the cigarette into the ground next to her shoe. “I’ve overheard Sansa and that barrister talking about Robert Baratheon dying in nearly the same way-“

 

“What barrister?”

 

“Baelish. She’s sleeping with him, you know. Mother will kill her if she finds out.” Her eyebrows lift in amusement. Surely at the thought of her mother unleashing hell and fury at her older sister.

 

Ramsay snorts and motions for the bottle back. “Petyr Baelish knows nearly everything. I didn’t know that also included your sister’s virtue.”

 

“That’s vile.”

 

He just shrugs. “What do you plan on doing about it?”

 

Arya flinches. “About Sansa’s virtue? Nothing.”

 

Ramsay turns to face her completely and pulls her elbow so that she’ll meet his eyes. Oh, he can feel the ropes of her muscles move beneath his hand. “Arya Stark, what do you plan to do about that _drunken fucking cow_.”

 

Arya stills. “I’m going to kill her, Ramsay.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up...Robb/Jeyne Poole


	7. Robb/Jeyne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [unqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unqueen/pseuds/unqueen) wanted a robb/jeyne (I assumed you wanted jeyne poole and not jeyne westerling) modern a/u, so I hope you like it! This took forever, but once I got over some hurdles, I had to stop myself from writing pages and pages

He hears crying from Sansa’s room. To be fair, she’s _always_ crying…about something somewhere. Like Ethiopian orphans or abandoned puppies or _life straws_ , or even the epilogue of last Harry Potter book.

 

_It’s just…’all was well’. I mean, Voldemort is dead, and they have children off to Hogwarts and everything. Harry should have married Hermione though. But his_ scar _didn’t hurt, so that just justifies it all, right?_

 

Robb sighs and braces himself against Sansa’s bedroom door knowing she’ll make a big deal about something or another. For a moment, he curses his father for leaving to the States for business and his mother for leaving for the city because _dear Aunt Lysa_ is having some sort of mental breakdown.

 

Closing his eyes, he curses his parents for trusting him to be in charge of this ridiculous house and his siblings that reside within its walls.

 

“Sansa?”

 

There are more sniffles, so he knocks this time.

 

“ _Sansa?_ Everything okay?” It better not be about _Katniss_ and _Peeta_ having babies, or _The Bachelor_ , or anything else like that.

 

“I…It’s fine, Robb.” She’s too abrupt in her answer.

 

Robb scrubs his hands over his face before turning the knob on her door. Whatever it is, he has to fix it. It’s his _duty_.

 

As soon as he turns and pushes, he’s met with resistance. “Robb! Everything’s fine. Just go.” He feels the weight of the door push back, but he’s determined.

 

“What is it? I swear-“ He stops because Sansa isn’t alone. On her bed is Jeyne Poole. As soon as he registers her he sees her hair hanging in her face and hears involuntarily hiccupping. His internal alarm goes off, and pushes his way into her room.

 

It’s uncomfortable, truly. Robb never really steps foot into either of his sisters’ rooms, but there’s something that’s just…off.

 

“Sansa?”

 

“Look, Robb. It’s okay. _Girl stuff_.” Sansa tries to maneuver him out of her room, but when she does he sees Jeyne lift her face.

 

She’s black and blue, eye swollen shut and lip split open.

 

He pushes his sister aside and kneels at the foot of the bed, directly in front of Jeyne, lifting her face up to get a better look. “What happened?”

 

Her eyes dart to Sansa. “I...it was an accident.” Her voice is so soft and gentle and Robb’s heart breaks.

 

The gentleness of her voice doesn’t cover the underlying fear. His eyes roam her face as his anger flares up. This wasn’t an accident, this was…this was _intentional_. How dare anyone touch this girl? Jeyne Poole was quiet and sweet and never caused anyone harm in her life- he’d know- the girl basically grew up here.

 

He’s still staring at Jeyne when he asks, “Who was it?”

 

“Robb, we can’t-“

 

“ _Sansa_ ,” he cuts her off, “who did this to her?”

 

“Father will be home in a few days. He’ll know how to handle it.”

 

“ _WHO DID THIS_?” He demands through gritted teeth, over his shoulder. It doesn’t matter when his father will be home. Justice needs to be served _now_ on behalf of this girl.

 

“Ramsay,” Sansa says. “Ramsay Bolton.”

 

He knows Ramsay in some vague, roundabout way; mostly through his father’s business dealings and that he was a couple of years below him at Eton. They few times Robb had had direct contact with Roose Bolton’s son were nothing important, yet he got an uneasy, dead-eyed feeling about him.

 

He looks back at the broken girl in front of him and takes a deep breath. Carefully, he brushes aside the hair shrouding her face and looks her in the eyes. He’s suddenly struck by her quiet, understated beauty-even in this state.

 

He kneels before her, like a knight swearing fealty and takes up her trembling hands. Robb wants to say so many things to alleviate her pain and fear, but only manages to square his jaw and leave his sister’s room.

 

0o0

 

How he’d gotten past the gate at the Dreadfort Estate, he wasn’t too sure. The adrenaline coursing through him makes it difficult to maintain a normal gait as he approaches the doors. He tells the butler who answers that he’ll wait here in the entry hall for _Mister Ramsay_ and it takes every fiber holding him together not to tear the house brick by brick looking for that pathetic excuse of a man.

 

“Oh. Robb Stark? What do I owe-“ Ramsay is cut off by a swift punch. Ramsay stumbles back, but doesn’t lose his footing. Robb glares at him as he watches Ramsay laugh and wipe the blood from his nose on the back of his hand.

 

“Don’t you ever touch her again.” Is all Robb can say through his haze of anger.

 

“The chivalrous Stark, come to avenge the poor maiden?”

Blind hatred unfurls into Robb’s limbs- a dangerous combination when mixed with the already teeming anger, and he pushes Ramsay as hard as he can against the wall, knocking over a side table and vase. “Don’t you dare, Bolton. I’ll tear you apart. _Do you understand me_?”

 

Ramsay laughs in his face again, and Robb is only aware of the blows he’s inflicting when pain in his hand in acute enough for him to become aware of it. He lets go of Ramsay and watches as he slides down the wall, nearly unconscious.

 

“ _Ahem_.”

 

Robb is startled to find Roose standing there, arms held behind his back. “Whatever business you have with my son surely could have been handled like gentlemen and not like some urban dwelling wildlings.”

 

“Sir, you don’t understand-“

 

“ _Enough_ , Mister Stark. I suggest you leave the property before the proper authorities are notified.”

 

Robb takes one more look at Ramsay before stomping through the threshold.

 

0o0

 

“Father is going to kill you.” Robb winces as Sansa cleans the cuts on his knuckles- and it could be the stinging of the alcohol or the potential consequences of his actions.

 

“You’ll not say anything, will you?” He chances a look at his sister to see a small smile.

 

“No,” she answers softly and begins to softly examine his hand-probably to check if it’s broken. “I won’t. I think it’s rather noble of you, really.”

 

0o0

 

He finds Jeyne standing at the balcony that extends from their library. She’s looking off into the distance and Robb studies her a bit before approaching. She’s changed into something he thinks is one of Sansa’s nightgowns and her hair is swept up. She really does have that timeless beauty about her.

 

“He won’t touch you again.” Jeyne turns to find Robb standing at the doors, and her eyes dart to the bandaged hand.

 

“I’m sorry, Robb. You didn’t need to-“

 

“ _I did_.” He says it with as much conviction as he feels as he joins her at the railing.

 

Jeyne tucks a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, mindful of the bruises on her cheek, “I don’t have anywhere to go now. My father moved to the Continent, you know.” She looks at him. “I don’t know what to do now.”

 

“You’ll stay here. Since when are you not welcome? As I recall, you claimed this house to be as much yours when you got yourself in a strop over Arya throwing mud all over your brand new Cinderella costume and then tracked it all over the formal dining room.” He doesn’t quite get the laugh he had hoped from her, but the smile was clear enough.

 

“All those years of torturing Jon and I to play Come-into-the-Castle with you and Sansa?”

 

Jeyne smiles wider. “And you always played didn’t you?”

 

“The fair maiden needed her knight in shining armor.” Robb offers.

 

Jeyne’s smile falters, and her eyes drop to her hands that grip the hard iron of the railing. Robb watches, and can’t help but cup her face so that he can look her in the eye. He wants to kiss her-not in a randy way- but a delicate meeting of lips. A kiss to tell her that she doesn’t need to ever be afraid again, and that he will protect her. That she is beautiful and worthy of a gentle love.

 

“Jeyne, I will always come to your rescue-whenever you need me. Even when you don’t, know that I will _always_ be here for you.”

 

Her eyes well up and she hesitantly lifts herself up on her toes just as he lowers himself down, and their first kiss is filled with promises and hope and something so much _more_.

 


	8. Arya/Petyr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no valid excuse for this other than I drank a bunch of wine.
> 
> Dialogue only.

“You saw me. You didn’t say anything.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Tywin Lannister was there. You could have turned me in.”

 

“My lady-“

 

“Don’t. _Do not,_ Lord Baelish.”

 

“I apologize. Did you _want_ me to? Your mother would not have wanted that.”

 

“I know how familiar you are with my mother.”

 

“Then you know how much I cared for her.”

 

“ _If you_ cared _for her, you wouldn’t have let this happen. He murdered my brother and my mother, Littlefinger._ DO _something.”_

 

\--

 

“What is it you’ll have me do, my lady?’

 

“Release me.”

 

“Clearly. My head isn’t worth as much as yours.”

 

“That isn’t what I said. Let me go…let me go and, I don’t know.”

 

“If I do, what will you do for me, my lady?”

 

“I’ll…I’ll be yours. Whatever you want, I’ll see it done.”

 

“Mine, you say?”

 

“ Attempt to _bed_ me, and I’ll kill you.”

 

“The easiest thing for a woman to do.”

 

“Aside from wearing your guts for garters.”

 

“As you wish.”

 

\--

 

“What a privilege.”

 

“So you say.”

 

“You have goals, ambitions. Let me help you achieve them.”

 

“Lord Baelish? Are you prepared to mete out justice to those that have wronged me?”

 

“Lady _Baelish_? I wan’t nothing more.”

 

 


	9. Petyr/Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1930's Dust Bowl Creepyship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by HBO's Carnivale and reading too much Cormac McCarthy. Punctuation be damned.

The heavy brown dust that settles around the spectacle doesn’t deter them. The bulbs are still illuminated despite the affront of the natural order of things. It’s heavy in the air and weighs down everything in its reach.

 

Yet, they still come, tempted by the novelty of it all. She’s no different. Her family have all come but have branched out, fanned away leaving her to her own devices.

 

So she meanders to a tent, painted sides promising glorious things- once bright but now faded after too many suns.

 

C’mon now! The Seer has many great prophesies in store for those who have the courage to seek the barker says.

 

Sansa stops to listen, for she is one who thinks she has courage, shoes grinding into the hard earth.

 

You there! You girl! The one crowned with fire! Step foot within these canvas walls and perhaps you shall find what it is you pursue the barker bellows, attention on her.

 

She steps back unsure.

 

Only a penny! Only a penny to witness the greatness of The Mockingbird! Famous on all corners of the globe! He continues and lifts up the tent flap in reverence.

 

She watches those under a spell meander in, hands deep in coverall pockets searching for admission. Farmers and field hands and folks dressed in Sunday best for the Carnivale arrival. Folks who’d nary had two penny to rub together eager for the delights of the traveling display.

 

Despite this she drops a penny into the barkers dirty hand and steps inside the sweltering confines to see a withering wood stage built before the days of automobiles. A man as old as her parents wanders in, austere for his profession. A dignity only seen in preachers and elected officials- someone who knows their worth and knows it’s worth payin’ for.

 

His milky-white eyes see nothing yet scan the bodies with some sort of evolutionary knowledge. Although he can’t see, he feels the presence of the masses that congregate to hear his uncommon sermon. The people who regularly sit in hard-hewn pews listening to the laundry list of underworld activities, hoping for a chance to catch the Devil Himself have now willingly paid for a chance to listen to the Devil’s mouthpiece to spew his truths.

 

There’s a girl here he feels. One with hair like fire and spirit to match. His minds-eye sees her in third hand dresses, a scion of a House once in the good graces of God, but now lowered enough for him to smell the vinegar of her sweat. In another life, she was to be Queen of a far off land.

 

He whispers to Hold The Door to find her and bring her to him. The half-wit knows nothing, yet knows enough to know who he’s talking about.

 

Bring her to my trailer he says.

 

 

* * *

 

You read the Mystic Cards he says.

 

I do but it’s the Devils work.

 

No. It is the truth girl. What are you doing here?

 

My family she says weakly unwilling to say that she thinks there's more to all this.

 

Join us. Join me. I see your value though no one else does.

The threadworn dress catches on the sweat of her thighs as she agrees. I ain't, I mean I ain't got no gift. She says it as if she's waiting for rejection, a girl with no  other prospects in this world. 

She's the one, he knows. The One  that Management has been waiting for. 

The one he's been waiting for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out an HBO original called Carnivale about a Dust Bowl era carnival. It's absolutely brilliant.


	10. Arya/Ramsay III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a stepping off point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter before things start happening. It's hard for me to not want to turn these chapters into a stand-alone, multi-chapter story
> 
>  
> 
> [Arya and Ramsay collage I made ages ago](http://landsmanwashere.tumblr.com/image/149820564053)

“What’s this?” He asks, smile on his face.

 

“A list,” she says simply, frowning at him for a moment before waiving the waitress over.

 

Ramsay fingers the folded over parchment, not yet opening it. “A list of? If you intend for me to run errands, perhaps you should wait until we’re wed.” What he says in jest, but there’s a grain- _more than-_ of truth behind it.

 

The fascination he has with her is no longer surprising. Arya is everything he’s ever wanted in a tiny package. Everything those worthless slits that he’d wasted his time on had _wanted_ to be.

 

And now, he’s trying to charm her.

 

Ramsay’s own interests trumps his fathers, though he supposed the end would be the same. An in into the Stark clan.

 

But this is more. _So, so much more_.

 

“ _Wed?”_ She frowns, “You don’t look stupid. Don’t you think I’d have to want to _date_ you first? Oh! Ale, please.” The second half of what she says is directed to the girl taking her order.

 

“Ale? You’re underage, are you not?”

 

“I am, though I fail to see why you care. They serve me here, which is why I wanted you to meet me here.” She follows that with a polite smile at the girl delivering her mug.

 

Ramsay observes her in all her tiny, lethal glory. Arya pulls a quaff of ale before fidgeting around her pocket for a cigarette. She finds one and lifts it up to her pink lips. He leans over the table to light her, and she lets him.

 

“So open it.”

 

Ramsay takes a deep drink of his own pint, eyeing her over the rim. As he sets it back down, he toys with it a bit just watching her. Watching her hard eyes and black hair, smoke curling out of those lips he wants to pull between his teeth.

 

_Cersei Lannister_

_Joffrey Lannister_

_Ilyn Payne_

_Polliver ?_

_Gregor Clegane_

_Sandor Clegane_

“A _list_. Everyone responsible or _in_ the hunting party that my father was in.”

 

“The question mark?”

 

“I don’t know his surname, but I’ll find him.” She narrows her gaze at the inside of her drink.

 

“ _So_ , my dear Arya…what are you going to do with this,” he waves the parchment, “I mean, aside from aknowledging that these people are complete degenerates and idiots.”

 

“Those are the degenerates and idiots I mean to kill.” Arya answers with a shrug of her shoulders, as if she were responding to a question about the weather.

 

Ramsay’s heart nearly stops.

 

“Is that so? How did you get it?” He leans back against the booth, watching her smoke as she looks back at him.

 

“That?” She motions. “Easy. Do you know how many people are willing to help a wayward intern at Petyr Baelish’s office?” She smiles, “Weird, innit? Just borrow Sansa’s clothes and wobble around on high heels with big doe eyes…and there you go. A list of names in the Baratheon file, and coincidentally in the Eddard Stark file too"

 

He can’t help but smile. She’s absolutely vicious and brilliant. 

 

“So why are you telling me?”

 

She drinks again, and eyes him.

 

Arya leans over the table, resting her elbows halfway. “I’ve heard about you, you know,” she say quietly, head cocked to the side. The cigarette is still dangling from her fingers as the smoke wafts over her face. “You like knives, so I’ve heard. Funny enough,” she continues as she leans so close to him that only her knees support her on the booth, “I do too. I also like you.”

 

“Do you?” Ramsay breathes.

 

Arya’s eyes focus on his lips. “Very much. But what I want to know is,” her eyes dart to his, “do _you_ like _me_?”

 

Ramsay leans forward just enough. “Oh, my darling. I _more_ than like you.” The adrenaline is almost welcome. He hasn’t felt his way in so long. He dares to reach over to feel that hair of hers and without thinking he tugs at it, bringing her face only centimeters away from his. He can literally inhale all her exhalations. “I _like_ you so much I’m going to help you…cross all those names off of your list.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> obviously this is a truncated list of Arya's names, based more on the show than the books. 
> 
> also: can i say how awesome it is that people are into this ship? it's weird, but damn i've fallen hard for it


	11. Robb/Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb finds comfort in Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. What a finale. I am pretty disappointed in the writing of S7, so I just kinda wanted something wrong and dirty to make me forget.
> 
> I am 100% for TWoW already

It isn’t until they’ve gone to the cottage in Islip that Robb feels a little relief. He sits with Sansa now, and watches as she dips her painted toes in the water, eyes gazing ahead at the tree line on the other side of the river.

 

She’s different now, he knows. Well, that’s stupid. They’re all different. You only get one father, after all.

 

Their mother decided a holiday at the cottage would do them all some good. To be away from the city and the press. Robb agrees with her because ever since Father died, Arya and Rickon have begun to act out- although for different reasons. Arya, because she’s only thirteen and Rickon because he uses Arya as a compass in most situations.

 

It’s a good thing, Robb thinks, that Cousin Jon has joined them because he’s sometimes the only thing that will reel in Arya when she gets all riled up- a ball angst and fear and confusion.

Robb’s eyes wander to the riverbank to see what it is Sansa finds so interesting, but can’t find anything different-anything of interest. He wonders what it is she’s thinking about, although they’re all kind of thinking the same thing, he suspects. He looks at her again and thinks of how stunning she is. Then he blinks, because of the nature of his thoughts and how it must be simple admiration of his sister he adores.

 

Sansa is handling herself well these days. She’s been courteous and polite and charming, and he knows she gets these underrated qualities from their mother, but Sansa does it with such ease, it almost unnerves him.

 

He’s left school to take the place as head of the house- to take up the mantle his father had put into place long before he was of age. It’s a burden, one he can’t take lightly, but that means being there- _really there_ \- for family.

 

The slight wind blows her hair into her face, and she shakes her head back. There are a few strands caught on her lip and Robb swipes them away, tucking them behind her ear. His knuckles brush against her skin, and for some reason his hands begin to shake. Before she can meet his eyes he drops his gaze to the water and grips the end of the pier, withered wood digging into his palms.

 

* * *

 

_He thinks of little Sansa, playing dress up and demanding that Robb and Jon play too. He can hear her demanding that Robb be the knight and rescue her from the evil dragon Jon. They relent, humoring her so she won’t tattle on them, yet Jon did his best to snatch the princess up while Robb became more and more determined to sweep her up out of harms way. It goes on and on until Jon spots baby Arya, waddling around with chubby legs in the garden with the nanny, and leaves them to tickle her with blades of grass._

_“It’s not fair,” six-year-old Sansa pouts. “We were still playing.” She’s eying her sister, jealousy clear._

_“Princess Sansa, don’t you know you’ve still got me? Why, I’m the best knight in all the kingdoms.” Robb gives her a low bow._

_She’s still frowning. “Well, then as my knight you must regale me with tales of your adventures.”_

_Robb laughs and sets her on his lap, recalling stories nanny had told them, while they both make chains from the delicate daisies that have popped up in the grass._

_“There,” he says, laying the crown of small flowers in her hair, “you are my Queen of Love and Beauty.”_

_His ten-year-old heart melts when she beams up at him. Placing her own crown upon his head, she takes his face into her tiny hands. “And you are the most wonderfulest, most handsomest knight.” And punctuates it with a quick kiss._

 

* * *

 

 

“I miss him.”

 

Sansa’s unexpected words break him from his thoughts. He looks to her, and is a little amazed, because she was the one who somehow avoided talking about Father. They are a lot alike that way. As the two eldest, they share the burden. Mother holds it together as best as she can, but Robb and Sansa can see the occasional cracks and that’s why they’ve had to keep it together.

 

Twin pillars that are holding up a crumbling family structure.

 

They both play at being mum and dad to the three youngest children, when their mother gazes off into the distance and mutters, “ _Ned_ ” to herself before retiring to her room.

 

So him and Sansa occasionally take care of the day-to day needs, and they work well together. The shifting and rhythm and muscle memory of breakfast and dinner for all of them is comfortable, and Robb is loath to admit that he feels slightly put out when Mother takes over her duties once again.

 

Robb pulls Sansa into him so that her head is resting on his shoulder, and he grazes her arm with his hand. “I know.” He turns his head so his face is nestled in her hair. “I do too.” He closes his eyes and squeezes her closer.

 

His heart beats too frantically in his chest, though he can’t admit to the reason why, because the nervous tension he feels with Sansa in his arms has to be about Father, or the burden they’re both carrying, or _something_ other than what he can feel unfurling into his limbs.                            

 

Maybe its grief and stress and any number of normal things, because _fuck_ , he must be so broken that Sansa is the only thing that gives him comfort. The only good thing in his life right now is his beautiful little sister, who in her own way makes things better.

 

Sansa shifts a little to bury herself further into him and wraps her arms around his middle and he can feel the brush of her breast against his chest, and he grips her a little tighter, hoping that he can squeeze the uneasiness out of his body.

 

“Robb?”

 

He takes a deep breath but keeps his eyes closed. “Sansa?”

 

“It’ll all be better, right? Everything?” She moves to look up at him, blue eyes darting around his face. “Right? Robb, I…” She trails off and waits for him to say something.

 

She looks so desperate. The look on her face portraying his feelings in a way he can’t. He takes her face in his hands. “Yes, Sansa. Father…he loved us. And we’re here…” He doesn’t know how to finish what he’s trying to say. How does he tell her that with her here, everything will be fine? That with _her_ here by his side, he’ll be okay- that they’ll all be okay.

 

Sansa’s face is so soft and delicate beneath his hands, he can’t help but run his thumbs along her high cheekbones. Her lips open just a touch and she inhales slightly before she reciprocates the motion, gently cupping his face.

 

“You won’t leave us, will you? Promise me, Robb,” Sansa pleads.

 

“ _Never_. I will _never_ leave you Sansa. I need you.” Robb needs her to know this. Needs her to know that he can’t be without her. He knew it his whole life, but now the thudding in his chest and the tightness of his lungs ensures that he can’t let her live one more second without her knowing.

 

One hand slowly moves down to her lips, slightly pulling them apart, and he leans over and kisses her. Because she has to know what she means to him. It’s innocent at first, a gentle peck, but Sansa pulls him in and sighs, and he forgets that she’s his sister.

 

She’s warmth and comfort and love, and so he darts his tongue between her teeth so he can be closer to her. Sansa breathes in and slowly meets his tongue with hers and she’s so sweet and tastes so good.

 

And he loves her now more than ever.


	12. Arya/Ramsay IV

Are you interested in the modernAU Arya/Ramsay? Find it as a standalone story [Here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11894010/chapters/26865897)


	13. Brandon Stark/Catelyn Tully

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brandon and Catelyn's betrothal. For @Nomun.

It was just after her twelfth name day, that her father asks to speak with her. Catelyn frowns at the pageboy and nods. She thinks on what reasons she could possibly summoned for, and hopes she’s not forgotten something she could be punished for. She’d been dutiful during lessons, hadn’t taunted little Edmure at all, and could think of nothing that would draw father’s ire upon her. Her heart beats a little faster as she ascends the stairs to her father’s solar.

 

Her palms are damp when she knocks, and she’s taken aback when Maester Vyman answers.

 

0o0

 

The maid had just left after brushing out Catelyn’s hair when the door burst open.

 

“Lysa!”

 

“Cat, oh Cat,” Lysa answers and flings herself dramatically upon Catelyn’s bed. “Father summoned you earlier, please tell me you aren’t in trouble.”

 

Catelyn pulls her dressing robe tighter around herself. “No, of course not-“

 

“Truly? I thought for certain father found out about that kissing game with Petyr, I swear I saw the castellan’s boy peeping-“

 

“Lysa, no. Nothing of the sort.” Cat sighs and takes a seat next to her sister. Ever since she’s left her father, she’d been bursting to share the news. Just thinking about it makes her giddy, and she’s been in a state of shock and happiness that makes her feel as if like the world has become brighter and vibrant. The smell of the water carried by the breeze smelled especially sweet and the green of the grass lusher.

 

Cat clears her throat, and fluffs her pillows to keep her hands busy. Father instructed her not to tell anyone the news quite yet, but when she’s with Lysa, it’s hard to bite her tongue. “He told me that the Blackwoods and the Brackens are meant to come here to sort out some quarrel of theirs. I’m to ready the castle for their arrival.” She says it with an air of nonchalance. That part is true, and she swelled with pride when she was asked. After all, she’s to be the lady of an ancient and noble house, and must perfect her duties before then.

 

Lysa falls back on the pillow Catelyn just fluffed and pouts. “Is that all? When aren’t those two fighting, honestly.” Catelyn playfully yanks the pillow from under her sister’s head.

 

“Also…” Catelyn can’t help but smile, because she just _has_ to tell her sister. The urge to share the news overshadows her good sense and promise to her father. “There’s more…” She hugs the pillow to her body, and tries to hide her red cheeks.

 

“Oh don’t tease! Tell me!”

 

“Promise you won’t say a word to Edmure, or Petyr, or _anybody_.”

 

“Yes, yes!”

 

Catelyn takes a deep breath. “Father has made a match for me.”

 

Lysa squeals and launches herself off the bed and grabs her sister’s hands, yanking her to her feet and spinning her around. “Oh Cat! That’s wonderful. You’ll have a beautiful gown and- oh- we’ll plait flowers in your hair, you’ll be so lovely. It’ll be just like the songs.”

 

Cat can’t help but laugh, and it’s as though speaking of her betrothal out loud increases her excitement. “So who is it?” Lysa asks, out of breath. “Is it Jason Mallister? How lucky you are. He’s quite handsome, isn’t he? Remember when we visited Seagard? Oh Cat, are you to be Lady of Seagard?”

 

Catelyn swings their joined hands. “It’s to Brandon Stark. Firstborn son of the Lord of Winterfell.”

 

Lysa gasps. “Winter-in the _North_? That’s so far away! Oh do give me your word that you’ll write.”

 

Catelyn hugs her sister. “Of course. And father will make a match for you too. Plus,” she lowers her voice to a whisper, “I haven’t…I haven’t flowered yet. I must wait for that, and I’ve been told he’s still being fostered by his father’s bannermen. A year, maybe, or more before it’ll even be announced, I should think.”

 

0o0

 

 

It’s a full two years later when the Brackens and Blackwoods return to bring their dispute to the Lord Paramount of the Trident. Riverrun hosts both lords and their retinues and within a fortnight, they’ve come to a truce. On the eve of their departure to their respective lands, Lord Tully stands in the Hall during the evening meal.

 

He announces that the great and honorable Lord Rickard Stark of Winterfell is to visit, and would it please the Lords Bracken and Blackwood to stay in order to show the Warden of the North the hospitality the Riverlands has to offer.

 

There are whoops and cheers, no doubt bolstered by wine and ale and a newly minted understanding between the rival houses. Lysa grabs Catelyn’s hand under the table. “Brandon will be here. Think of it. Your future lord husband- here, finally.”

 

Catelyn tries to hide her grin. They’ve exchanged a few letters over the past two years, and from what she’s gathered, he strong and capable, and even gentle in his words. _It’s so soon, she thinks._ She looks down in her lap, trying to remember that she isn’t the awkward girl of twelve anymore, but a woman flowered at fourteen. She no longer wears the loose-fitting dresses of a child, but the more shapely gowns that reveal what septa calls ‘ _birthing hips’_.

 

Instead of saying anything, she squeezes Lysa’s hand.

 

0o0

 

Time goes by so quickly and before Catelyn knows it, it’s announced that Lord Stark and his host are a day ride from Riverrun.

She tries to remain calm, focusing on the tasks that needed to be done before their arrival. The kitchens needed to be replenished, so she ensures the quantity and quality of the cheeses and cuts of meat for the feast. She tallies barrels of wine and straw mattresses, orders new rushes to be mixed with herbs and flowers for the floors, and scented candles. It’s exhausting, but that night her excitement gets the best of her.

 

_Her husband is to come tomorrow._

 

0o0

 

Brandon Stark is more handsome than she dared hope. She’s met him with her best courtesies on display, and he doesn’t disappoint. He seems friendly and open. Lord Stark is stoic, but kind and his second son Eddard is quiet and a bit shy.

 

After the wine is poured, but before the feat begins, Lord Tully announces the betrothal of his first-born daughter and the heir to Winterfell. There are cheers and gasps, and Catelyn turns a shade red to match her hair, despite her attempts to remain poised and ladylike.

 

The feast itself is a cheerful and merry affair. The music begins, and Catelyn knows that she and her betrothed are to open the dance.

 

She sees Brandon approach her, and mindful of her posture and mannerisms, she accepts his outstretched hand. This is her first time seeing him up close, and his eyes are so grey, they look like storm clouds.

 

Brandon’s shoulders are broad and he’s so tall, she feels like a child. “My lady, I am pleased to finally lay eyes upon you. I’ve imagined you in my mind more times than I can count, but my dreams have done you no justice.” He smiles as he leads her around the floor.

 

She dips her eyes, and hopes he cannot feel her trembling. “Thank you. I hope you find the walls of Riverrun welcoming.” Catelyn wants to say more, knows she should, but it’s hard when she concentrating on the man holding her and trying to remember the steps to a dance she can do in her sleep.

 

She dances with her father, Lord Blackwood, and even Eddard Stark, who looks at everything but her, and as the music begins to die down, Petyr. Petyr tries to talk to her, but her gaze darts around to find her future husband. When she spots him, she curtsies to Petyr, and brushes him off intent on saying goodnight to Brandon. Her feet hurt and she has stayed up later than she ever has before.

 

“My lady. I was just looking for you.” Brandon holds his arm out to her. “Although it’s easy, considering my bride is the loveliest woman here.”

 

She takes his arm and smiles. It’s a little less flustering now that she’s had a few cups of wine. “I dare say you haven’t seen all the women here.” She jests.

 

He chuckles and the sound is warm and masculine. “There’s no need. A fairer face cannot be found in any of the kingdoms, of that I am sure.” He’s escorting her out of the hall, but stops. “Without any impropriety assumed, would you care to walk with me?” He appears to sense her hesitation because he adds quickly, “I assure you, and we’ll stay in full sight of the guards. You’re to be my lady-wife, and your reputation is most important to me.”

 

Catelyn looks over her shoulder through the hall doors and sees her father and Lord Stark in an intense conversation, goblet of wine between them. Her uncle, Ser Brynden, looks as though he were playing some sort of drinking game with Lord Bracken and some squire. Even her brother and sister were occupied with Petyr, the former slapping Petyr on the back as he downed a goblet.

 

Since there _were_ going to stay in full sight of her father’s guard…she turned back to him, “Yes, that would be most welcome.”

 

0o0

 

Lords Bracken and Blackwood leave as the Starks stay in Riverrun for a moons turn. Catelyn has sufficiently run the household while her father attends to matters of state with Lord Stark, but she does make enough time to watch Brandon ride and spar and he is everything she wants in a husband.

 

Ever since their first meeting, a good feeling about this match has solidified in her. Aside from doing as her father commanded- marrying for _family_ and _duty_ and _honor_ , she could see herself marrying for love as well.

 

Catelyn suspects she may be falling in love with him already.

 

0o0

 

The morning of their departure, Catelyn rises early with a heavy heart. She can hear preparations being made in the yard, but she takes time and picks her favorite dress. She tells her maid to spend extra time on her hair, because she wants to be her best. Even if she’s melancholy over her betrothed absence, she’ll be able to carry herself with grace and maturity.

 

0o0

 

Brandon is the last to mount, as he is pulling her out of earshot. “Lady Catelyn, my heart shall ache with each step I take away from you.” He carefully takes both her hands and looks her in the eyes.

 

“I shall write then. I fear you’ll be missed,” she blinks back tears and swallows, “Missed quite a bit. Will you write in return?”

 

“As my lady wishes, though I believe I did warn you that I may disappoint when it comes to words.”

 

She smiles. “More of a man of action, I presume?”

 

His smile slowly fades as he’s staring at her. With a gloved hand he cups her face. “Not only are you beautiful, but ever so smart. Action speaks louder than words, or so I am told.” He whispers, and with that, he places a soft kiss on her lips.

“The next time we meet, we will be wed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @Nomun wanted a canon- era Brandon/Cat story, so I hope this was close to what you wanted! It was interesting to write a young Catelyn POV, and I based a lot of what I wrote from her chapters in ASoIaF. I tried to be as canon compliant as I could- the Brackens and Blackwoods feud, Cat thinking how handsome Brandon was, Petyr dancing with Cat and then proceeding to get hella drunk...etc. Although I couldn't remember if Ned was still in the Vale during this time, or not- so lets just...roll with it?
> 
> Obviously, this is a pre-Tourney at Harrenhall fic, because if I didn't stop here I would have gone hog-wild. Originally, I was going to include Jaime Lannister's visit (and rumored attempt to match him with Lysa) and would have gone all the way to Brandon's journey to KL. But, that would have been too much I think.
> 
> I liked ending it with Cat's hope that she'll marry the handsome heir, and have lottsa babies with him (I purposley left brandon's wild ways out)
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading


	14. Jaime/Arya I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Arya. A small hometown. Modern American AU in the Pacific Northwest.

_“Well my goodness gracious let me tell you the news_  
My head's been wet with the midnight dew  
I've been down on bended knee talkin' to the man from Galilee  
He spoke to me in the voice so sweet  
I thought I heard the shuffle of the angel's feet  
He called my name and my heart stood still”

_-Johnny Cash_

_'_ God's Gonna Cut You Down'

 

 

 

 

Near ten years had passed since he stepped foot in this area. And now, driving up the curved road that lead to his hometown, his heart begins to beat almost as rapidly as the revolutions of the tires on his pickup- the one thing left to his name.

 

His good hand grips the steering wheel as he passes landmarks he tries not to see. Places he remembered ticking off as a child, back when it was him and Cersei and little Tyrion in the back of the car driven by his father’s driver.

 

The second hand store.

 

The ‘Not Potable Water’ sign.

 

How many passing lanes joined the road then faded.

 

The Inn at the Crossroads bar that now has boarded windows.

 

The road that would go on for miles and miles before opening up to the coastal town that his father’s father’s father had built. Not that it matters much these days anyway.

 

Jaime squints through the windshield, the setting sun bursting intermittently through the treetops, emphasizing the dust that covers the dashboard and gearshift and himself.

 

His stump holds the wheel steady as he reaches over to grab a bottle of water resting on the seat. With the practiced ease of someone long handicapped trying something new, he manages to grip the bottle between his thighs and uncap it. Tossing the bottle aside when he’s done, he rubs an eye and tucks his too-long hair behind and ear. Jaime wonders what waits for him at home.

 

 

He scratches his beard, and starts patting his shirt pocket for his pack of cigarettes- a habit he’d picked up in prison-and realizes that he had tossed them into the glove box at the start of this terrible journey. He curses.

 

He crosses the bridge over Blackwater River, and it doesn’t escape him that it’s now a brand new bridge- smooth asphalt and grey barriers and silver railings. Jaime has a brief moment of- what was it called? _The call of the void_ , he hears Tyrion answer. Yes, that was it. How easy it would be to just press his foot down on the gas, faster, faster, faster- test the engineering of this brand new bridge he’d never seen before. See if these barriers can withstand the impact of a truck at sixty-five mile per hour.

 

He doesn’t though. He doesn’t do any of that because he’s a coward. If there’s anything life has taught him, it’s that he’s a coward- a complete craven asshole-that can’t seem to do himself a favor and _end it_ all already.

 

 

Jaime unrolls the window and inhales. It smells the same. Pine and the ashy odor of gravel. There’s the freshness of it all too. The _freshness_ of the almost untouched forest that even overpowers the burned oil stench his truck gives off. He blinks back the wetness that films his eyes, and swallows. He isn’t sure why he’s reacting like this.

 

Lost in his thoughts, he almost doesn’t notice a figure walking on the shoulder. He frowns, and wonders who is stupid enough to walk along this highway. The closer he gets he sees that it’s a woman- maybe a girl. Dark hair. Green jacket. She’s not hitchhiking, just walking.

 

Without thinking, his foot lifts off the gas pedal and hovers over the brake.

 

0o0

 

The girl opens the door and peers in.

 

“Get in.”

 

“You don’t know where I’m going,” she says, though her hand is braced on the seat.

 

Jaime sighs. “Get in. I’ll give you a ride until Casterly.”

 

He doesn’t look at her at all when she climbs in and pulls the door shut.

 

“I wasn’t hitchhiking you know.”

 

“Didn’t say you were. You shouldn’t walk along the shoulder around here. Cars dart around the bends.” Jaime hopes that’s enough of an explanation. Cars can take these curves at eighty-five if they’re daring enough. One wrong turn and somebody would have swept this tiny girl-woman over an embankment.

 

Jaime sits next to this girl (woman?) and realizes- “Open up the glove box, will you? I need a cigarette.”

“What happened to your hand?”

 

“Get me that pack of cigarettes.”

 

 

She reaches over, and he sees her overly large sunglasses and how it emphasizes her little pink bow lips.

 

Those bow lips light one of his Marlboros and she hands it to him. He side eyes her, and takes the offered cigarette. The filter is wet from her lips, but he finds it sensual.


	15. Sandor/Arya

“Can I have one of those?”

 

The small Stark girl looks at him with those huge eyes as she motions at the cigarette dangling from his fingers.

 

“No,” is all he says, and hopes his demeanor is enough to shoo her away.

 

He can feel her roll those eyes without even looking at her. “I won’t tell anybody, you know.”

 

Sandor leans down, directly in front of her face, smoke billowing out of his mouth. “ _No_.”

 

“Just _one_. It’s so fucking _stupid_ in there.”

 

He silently agrees, but that doesn’t mean anything. It _is_ fucking stupid in there, and he briefly wonders if this job is really worth the money. He drops the cigarette, crushing it, then realizes that _bitch_ will blow a gasket if she finds butts on the patio, so he brushes it aside with the toe of his boot.

 

He adjusts the flak jacket under his sweatshirt and meanders away from the back doors. There’s a certain _tap-tap_ of heeled shoes behind him. “I said _no_ , now _fuck off,”_ he’s pulling his best authoritative voice, though he doubts she’ll listen.

 

“You paid to tell little girls to fuck off?”

 

“I’m _paid_ to keep the peace. Far as I’m concerned- you’re disturbing it. Fuck off back inside. Your mummy and dad is wondering where you are.”

 

“You don’t even know who they are- why do care anyway?’ The Stark girl asks. Sandor turns to face her, ready to physically remove her from here and into the ballroom, when there’s something about her face that makes him stop.

 

She’s not pretty- well, conventionally pretty- but her grey eyes has a spark, and her dress tells him she fucking hates this too.

 

Don’t matter none, though.

 

“You aint old enough.”

 

“I’m old enough to know that Joffrey is an ass and his mother is a stupid cow. I’m old enough to know that I want a cigarette and a quaff of that flask I know you’re hiding.”

 

“Then you’re old enough to know I’ll box your ears, child.” It’s a poor retort, but one nonetheless.

 

“Go on then.”

 

Sandor sighs and hands her a cigarette, eager to have her out of his sight. “Go.”

 

“ I need a light.”

 

“Oh for fuck sake.” He digs his hands in his pockets and holds the lighter to her face. The low flame somehow bathes her face in shadows that he finds appealing. As soon as it lights between her lips her eyes dart up.

 

Arya Stark looks at him, lighter lit too long. The wheel of the lighter starts to burn his thumb, but it don’t matter none.

 

“Payment for that is a kiss,” he says, without knowing where it came from.

 

“To you?” Arya asks.

 

“Aye.”

 

The tips of her mary-janes scrape on the cobblestones and she darts a kiss to the security guard’s mouth.


End file.
